This Bed
by neitherxnory
Summary: John just wanted to go to bed. Wee!chester angst.


Title: This Bed  
>Author: neitherxnory<br>Rating: K+  
>Characters: wee!Sam, wee!Dean, grumpy John<br>Disclaimer: I don't own anything pertaining to Supernatural or the boys.  
>Warnings: a little sick!Dean<br>Word Count: 1280  
>Summary: John just wanted to go to bed. Wee!chester angst.<p>

Prompt from the hoodie_time hurt/comfort challenge meme: _John gets home from a hunt, exhausted after a few days with no sleep, and stumbles into bed. Unfortunately, wee!Dean is sick with a bad cough. John wakes up long enough to ask his son to try and be quiet about it (blame the exhaustion for bad parenting!) but poor Dean can't stop. So he goes and sits in the cold bathroom, or in the impala, where he won't wake his dad. :-( Cue some guilty John!_

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><p>This bed, thought John, is a fucking temple. Stale sheets, curiously-stained comforter and loose springs still put it leagues above last night's bed. Not so much of a challenge when last night's bed was… trekking through a forest in Idaho. But still, this motel bed was John's nirvana.<p>

The path to this bed had been long and treacherous. Two feet inside the door and the big man had been bodily assaulted by his five-year-old. (Sammy, Sammy! You've got to get off my leg, little man. No, really Sam. I can't walk… Dean! Get your brother?) The little monster, never afraid of anything in his life, would probably hurl himself at the nearest woman in white. Or brick wall.

But after three days on the road, John wasn't too shocked by his little limpet. This was one of the first out-of-state hunts he had taken since… anyways, it was the longest he'd left the boys to themselves in a while. And John had been worried the whole time, scout's honor. So, yeah, John was tired and Sammy was clingy and Dean was still in bed, snotting.

Dean. Yeah, there was the kicker. It would be a huge shit-fest of a lie to say that Dean had been bubbly or exuberant any time in recent memory. He talked (grudgingly) and giggled (usually at something ridiculously stupid that John would never figure out but kept Sammy occupied for thirty seconds.) And usually, Dean at least made a pretty good show of missing his old man. John could at least squeeze a "Hi Dad," or a "Did you make the sale?" from his bigger ankle-biter.

Today, all that could be squeezed from Dean was snot. Not a single word, but an impressive quantity of yellow drippy shit, if John was honest. And, in the spirit of honesty, John's heart had dropped at the first (prolonged) sniffle. Because Sam was still doing his thigh-high boot impersonation on his father's leg and it had been way more than forty hours since John had slept and he really – really – just needed some breathing room. And Dean was his go-to breathing room man, cleaning up all the crap (be it garbage or drama or the lack of a half-decent SOB to parent his kids) that his Dad and his demon(s) dragged into the motel-room-of-the-week. Dean was nine, but Dean was always, always on his game.

Except for tonight, when John's A-game consisted of blearily patting Sammy's head until he unwound his monkey arms and clambered back into bed like a sated sloth. Check the salt lines, kick off his boots and flip belly-first onto the unoccupied bed. He hadn't remembered to flip the lights, and usually Dean would do it so no problem.

Except when John woke up, twenty minutes (holy shit, how had it only been twenty minutes?) later, the lights were still on. So, yeah, the man was squinty and cranky and who wouldn't be after a hunt like that? Two ribs way on the wrong side of fucked up and a missing toenail to top off the excellence. And, in case he had forgotten, way too long without any shut-eye. Twenty minutes of sleep and some blinding fluorescents and the sea lion impersonation (holy fuck is that a human being or has Sea World thrown open their gates?) were not doing it for him. Managing to drag himself from his fugue, John turned his face towards the other bed.

"Kiddo, you awake over there?" He muttered, peeling open an eye with great reluctance. Dean grunted in congested affirmation.

"You mind trying real hard to keep it down, buddy? I'll get you some of that grape cough shi…stuff in the morning. But right now it's time to sleep and…" He trailed off, half-awake brain unable to compute just what Dean needed to be doing right now.

"K, Dad. Sorry," Dean mumbled, giving an almighty sniff and rolling away. Shit, that wasn't supposed to come out like that. But Dean was still and quiet and Sam was still asleep so he'd deal with it in the morning.

And when Sammy woke him up at the ungodly hour of seven by bouncing on his heavenly bed, John was with it. Charged to at least 80%, ready to bring his A-game to the table. It looked like Dean was back with it too: the motel room had the markings of his oldest, the problem-solver, all over it. The lights were finally off, John's duffel and assorted crap was no longer in front of the door, and the room was quiet.

John celebrated by grabbing Sammy by the ankles, pulling him down on his rear, and manhandling the little squeaker under the covers with him in the hopes that they could salvage another half hour of sleep before facing the world. Of course, that lasted for all of ten seconds before the five-year-old started wriggling.

"Deeean!" the little kicker whined, kicking John in the kneecap like that would improve the situation. John groaned.

"Go back and snuggle with him, then, if he's so much cooler than your old man," he teased, giving his son a little nudge towards the edge of the bed.

"He's not there, though," Sammy complained, personally affronted by his brother's absence.

John went from zero to fucking terrified in no time at all.

"Since when?" He asked gruffly, sitting up and swinging his legs towards the other – empty – bed.

"Dunno," Sammy pouted; so no help on that front, then. John was on his feet and banging into the bathroom before his brain had caught up with the psychotic father currently possessing his body. But his little boy was gone and it was fucking October in Wyoming and he knew that slimeball behind the front desk was a pervert.

No Dean in the bathroom, and John snatched up his keys in his left hand, swung Sammy (way too heavy for this, now) onto his right hip and stormed out the front door without boots, coats or wallet. Slammed through the door, paused, and dumped Sammy back inside of the salt line with a "back to bed."

Because there was the Impala. And there was Dean, sleeping in the Impala. Forty degrees outside, no coat and someone was definitely watching through the front office window (fucking pervert. Knew it!) Sane John caught up to AngryGrizzly John somewhere between the room and the driver's side door, and he took a minute to ease the heavy door open.

Dean was sleeping, teeth a little chattery but wrapped in the boys' emergency blanket from the back seat so not altogether hypothermic. His breathing was wheezy, and as John sat gingerly on the seat (like Dean was the princess and John was 6 feet-and-some worth of pea) his oldest pried open his eyes.

And then coughed directly into John's face. It sounded like a barking seal or an angry killer whale or John's fuzzy memory of last night _when he told his sick son to stop coughing so loud cause Daddy was tired._

As John opened his mouth, ready to promise Dean the world if he'd just forgive his bastard of a father, he caught the glint in his eldest's eyes. Mary's eyes that looked so proud and asked "Did I do good? Did I make you happy?"

God help him, John said it, even though it ripped his heart apart. Dean didn't need his apologies, his guilt, his shame at being the shittiest father to ever spawn. Dean needed his sacrifice to be worth something. So John said it.

"Thanks, Deano. You really helped me out last night."

And Dean's sleepy but radiant smile was just another nail in John's coffin.


End file.
